Not Rocket Science
by BatmansBabe
Summary: Tony and Pepper have a disagreement on the assembly of certain things.


Disclaimer: I still…don't own this

Disclaimer: I still…don't own this. How screwed up is that? I should totally own this.

AN: I am inspired by the _weirdest_ shit. I almost titled this story "Peanut Butter Jelly Time." My brother and his best friend quote Family Guy far too often for my sanity. And I apologize to Miley Cirus. Kind of.

**Not Rocket Science**

In everything, Pepper Potts is a perfectionist. She dresses immaculately, arranges, declines, and reschedules appointments like it's a God-given talent and not something she took years to hone to a skill, does anything Tony needs of her without so much as batting an eyelash.

So when Tony finds her upstairs in his kitchen making herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, he is naturally flabbergasted by the way the sandwich comes together.

This is what he is witness to:

Pepper lays out one piece of white bread on a tiny plate, the other thrown haphazardly atop her glass of lemonade, balancing on the lip, and uses a spoon to scoop out peanut butter from a jar. She grabs the piece of bread on the plate and swipes the spoon across it, leaving a messy glob which, to his shock and horror,_ she doesn't smooth out_. Instead she flings the spoon (Spoon? his mind is running on repeat. Really?) into the jar again and he watches again as she lets another glob of peanut butter fall onto her piece of bread. She then presses the convex side of the spoon into the two globs and makes a few little swirling motions with her wrist, pulls the spoon to her mouth and licks the damn thing clean.

The jelly is even worse. She doesn't even attempt to spread it this time, just scoops out some raspberry reserves and flicks them on top of the peanut butter, then she drops the spoon into the sink.

He tries to not flinch as she presses the dry piece of bread somewhat crookedly atop the mess of peanut butter and jelly, or when she takes a bite out of the very middle edge of the whole sandwich, and instead sets about making his own.

Pepper watches in amusement.

Tony pulls out one of the middle sized plates, then sets two pieces of bread side by side on the plate. He digs in one of his drawers for a butter knife, dips it into the jar of Jiff, and then, with all the precision of an engineer at work, slides the knife gracefully across the bread, evenly spreading the peanut butter across one piece. Then he swipes the excess back into the jar and uses a washrag to clean up the knife, even though Pepper knows for a fact there will be peanut butter in the jelly anyway.

He uses the knife to scoop out a decent amount of preserves and then he picks up the piece of bread that has nothing on it, and spreads the reserves evenly across it, reaching back in for more when it isn't quite enough to fill the square. Then he repeats his actions from before, getting rid of any excess raspberry and cleaning the knife off with a washcloth.

She watches with a raised brow as he perfectly aligns the edges of his crust and then uses the knife to cut a diagonal line across the sandwich, and then breathes a sigh of relief when he carelessly tosses the knife in the sink and begins to eat one half of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich much like a pig deals with slop, while Pepper slides back onto the couch and eats her sandwich delicately while she types out a reply to Senator Gangers.

She hides an eye-roll as Tony plops down next to her to complain about her sandwich making skills.

When his daughter is eleven she kindly requests he stop making her lunches, and when he protests and goes off on a tangent about how he wants to raise her right and not give in to the elitist idea that children should buy disgusting unhealthy lunches from the equally disgusting unhealthy school cafeteria he gets an eye-roll and a punch to the gut.

"Dad, could you please just have _mom_ make my PB and J from now on?"

He sputters, already halfway through what he thought would be a perfectly legitimate reply that the private academy she attends, if he doesn't keep her grounded (rich, coming from Tony Stark, former playboy, child genius, and…oh yeah, Iron Man) will turn her into the next Miley Cirus, boozing and sexing her way through Southern California. " – and I will not have my daughter having sex and getting half-naked pictures taken by Annie Leibovitz splashed on every newspaper from here to Antarctica! I'll have you know I don't stand by – wait, what?"

"I want mom to make my sandwich in the morning. Or I'll make it. Whatever. Just…stop making my sandwiches."

"I make a perfect PB and J!"

"Peanut butter and jelly isn't rocket science, dad. God, don't be so anal retentive." She grabs a box of Cap'n Crunch from a cabinet and stuffs it under one arm as she heads for the fridge.

"Aren't you a little young for back-talking and phrases like anal retentive? And what's wrong with my sandwiches?"

"_You're _the one who sent me to a private school, and, by the way, in case you didn't get the notice, I'm the brainy smartass child of the famous Pepper Potts and the infamous Tony Stark. And I just want mom to make my sandwiches, okay?" Then she grabs a Pepsi and a bag of deli salami, slams the door shut with her foot, and heads in the direction of the stairs.

"I send you to that private school because it has a superior education program and because they hate paparazzi as much as I do. Don't say ass. You're not old enough to say ass. I am _not _infamous. And what's wrong with my PB and J?"

"Just drop it, dad. You make a peanut butter and jelly like it's a science project. Sometimes you just gotta shoot from the hip." She's already halfway through the living room, backing up towards the stairs, looking every inch a Stark with dark brown hair in her face and a smile lighting her eyes, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"Oh, and dad?"

Tony glances at his daughter, as she climbs the stairs backward. "What?"

"I promise I'll never take half-naked pictures with Annie Leibovitz or booze and sex my way through the greater part of LA. You've raised me too well for that."

Then she's gone, disappearing up the stairs

He takes a moment to wonder how he ever made such a perfect child. He is a _damn_ good father, if he does say so himself.

Then her music blares through the house, some horrible ska/punk/emo/indie mix that makes him want to poke his eyes out.

Well. It certainly wasn't a rocket science.


End file.
